The Man With The Pants
by Manchester
Summary: In honor of Labor Day, here's a story about someone whom by dint of a good idea and hard work rose to the heights of his profession. Now, some very strange requests are coming from Sunnydale and a decision must be made.


For Phineas McCormack looking through his second-story interior office windows at the immense workspace below stretching out for acres in the underground concrete bunker snapped up for a song when its previous owner got a life sentence for attempted genocide, life was good. This 85-year-old appeared much younger than his real age, more like a man in his early fifties, but that was just one of the perks for being the main tailor for the various hero/villain communities throughout the whole world.

* * *

It wasn't like Phineas had _intended_ for any of it to happen in the first place. Back in the early 'thirties, he'd been far more preoccupied with trying not to starve to death when nobody at the start of the Great Depression had any money to afford new clothes from a struggling New York City tailor.

Then, one night just before locking up and glumly going home after yet another day without a single customer, a quite remarkable individual rushed into Phineas' small shop. This person took up virtually every bit of free space there, since he happened to be almost seven feet tall and with shoulders nearly the width of a barn door.

Phineas recognized him right away, of course. All the newspapers in town had eagerly published what few photographs they could get of Clark Savage, Jr. in between breathless columns of describing this surgeon/scientist/adventurer's amazing exploits under the far better known cognomen of 'Doc' Savage.

Though, in all those pictures, Mr. Savage was wearing a pair of intact pants unlike right this minute.

"Can you replace these immediately?" a voice rumbling with chained power anxiously demanded while waving at the tattered cloth below the waist which barely maintained his modesty.

"Ah…," Phineas blinked, looking up and down at someone who had to be at least a 38" inseam. "I'm afraid there's nothing in my stock long enough to fit you. But if you've got the time to spare, I can whip up something satisfactory from scratch in about a half-hour."

Mr. Savage had a rather conflicted expression abruptly flash across his bronzed face before he went back to his usual impassivity. "That'll have to do, I suppose. My…business here is concluded for now, and I certainly can't travel to headquarters looking like this to pick up another pair of pants. Please begin at once, if you don't mind."

"Certainly, sir!" Phineas happily declared. He went on while bringing out a tape measure, "Just take them off, and I'll get started!"

A short time later, Mr. Savage was wearing an entirely new pair of pants and standing in front of the tailor shop's full-length mirror while examining this recent garment. Turning around in a complete circle and tugging at his waistband, this hero admitted in a rare tone of approval, "A perfect fit, and it's comfortable, too! Good job!"

"Thank you, sir," absently responded Phineas. Instead of basking in his customer's praise, Phineas' attention was mostly directed at the remains of Mr. Savage's previous pants what was now cradled in the tailor's hands on its way to be disposed of in the shop wastebasket. He couldn't help noticing at various points in the shredded fabric what looked like nothing else but bullet holes, knife slashes, and claw marks-

"How much do I owe you?"

 _That_ quickly brought Phineas back to his surroundings. He promptly quoted a fair price for his work, and Mr. Savage paid up without a murmur of protest from this doctor's wallet. In fact, there was added to the pile of bills laid down on the shop counter a sizable tip. Phineas' called-out thanks followed after the departing surgeon, and the shop door then shut leaving nothing of a hero's presence than the deeply-appreciated money along with what Phineas was still holding onto, a souvenir of what could happen to a brave man's clothes in the middle of his daring deeds.

It actually gave him an idea…

A couple of days later, Phineas McCormack paid a visit to the eighty-sixth floor of a certain downtown skyscraper, lugging along several new pairs of pants created from memory for the occupant of that high-rise residence. A somewhat surprised Doc Savage then listened to this tailor's proposal that he kept these pants as spares in case of future damage during Mr. Savage's everyday activities.

Amusedly listening to how Doc was getting shaken down today by somebody with real chutzpah, a couple of this adventurer's associates also there in the room joined together in challenging that tailor to set them up too with new spare clothes. Given how this dare involved dressing a guy with such a simian build he'd once been mistaken for an adult orangutan, another man with enormous fists capable of joining any circus freak show as the giant act, a loquacious beanpole, and the final aide appearing as if he'd just arisen from a sickbed, Phineas impressed them all by instantly agreeing. Moreover, he pulled it off inside a week by providing a dozen full set of spare suits for everybody.

Even the last of their company, who usually patronized the most expensive men's stores in the city, went along in acquiring additional suits from Phineas if only to protect his original outfits from excessive damage.

A month later while behind the store counter contently counting the money he'd earned so far from Mr. Savage and his associates, Phineas was taken by complete surprise again one night by a new customer materializing in his shop from seemingly thin air.

Peering out from under a low-slung black slouch hat which along with a red silk scarf mostly obscured his features save for a long, aquiline nose, this stranger rasped in a truly menacing voice, "I understand you've adequately performed some tailoring work for Savage and been sensible enough to keep your mouth shut about it. I wish to do the same, but this time, to make sure you stay silent…"

The stranger's glittering gaze towards a gaping Phineas changed into a scorching stare, and the tailor felt his thoughts begin to blur into cloudiness. Despite the sudden mysterious daze he was experiencing, Phineas' fingers fumbled into an open shop counter drawer for what he knew to be inside there.

An instant afterwards, Phineas yelled right into the Shadow's face, "HEY! Knock that off, or I'll sew your left pants leg shut and you'll look a complete idiot trying to put it on! In my shop, the customer's always right, but that doesn't mean you can get away with putting a whammy on me! I always give my best and in turn you pay up on the dot! For that, I don't blab to anyone! Is that clear enough, or am I gonna have to give you the bum's rush outta here?"

Kent Allard was definitely impressed. Very few people had the mental capacity to withstand the Shadow's hypnotic gaze, but this tailor had done it within mere seconds. No lack of courage there, either. Perhaps it would best serve himself to treat their encounter as a simple business transaction.

"Very well," the Shadow grudgingly muttered. He gasped the edge of his cloak and pulled it away from his body, revealing how that loose outer garment with its red lining had nearly been cleft in twain by some sharp implement. "Can you fix this?"

"Sure," Phineas replied at once. He got up from his seat being the counter, palming the needle he'd just used moments ago to painfully jab himself in the upper thigh. "Let me get the right thread so nobody'll notice the stitches. What did that, anyway?"

"A sword."

Phineas merely shrugged at this cold, concise answer, pulling open a wall drawer and searching among the bobbins nested there for the exact scarlet shade necessary. Yeah, of course, that'd do it. Who cared? Judging from that jerk's big flashy ring, he could well afford to pay for both the job and the much larger additional part of the bill Phineas was going to stick him with tonight, having to do with the rude Svengali stuff he'd tried to pull earlier.

Soon enough, the tailoring task was done, the requested hefty charge was handed over to the last dollar bill, and the guy with the schnoz faded out of existence without even using the shop door. Phineas had been very careful throughout all this not to look his latest customer right in the eyes, which didn't make him happy. Well, to hell with that. Any bad manners sent his way, Phineas was going to do the same thing in return to 'em. You want respect, you behave respectfully. Wonder if whoever'd just been here figured this out?

As a matter of fact, he did. Over the years, the Shadow frequented this tailor's store whenever needful and things went smoothly enough without the hypnosis this New York City defender was known for among both the other heroes and villains in the five boroughs.

Many of these same mystery men mostly on the side of good soon learned they could have their clothes discreetly repaired or replaced at a certain tailor's location. Operator #5, the Spider, the Avenger, Secret Agent "X", and others eventually showed up, had their torn and ripped garments speedily patched up, paid the bill in cash ("No checks, mister. What I am going to do at the bank, argue with them over something signed with your code name or secret identity?"), and further spread the word.

Unfortunately, that soon led to Phineas encountering his first genuine _villain._

* * *

"Hah!" gloatingly chuckled a tuxedoed guy with half a face of flesh and the rest made of metal to the tailor held at bay with a dagger at his throat. "Don't bother denying it! My foremost archenemy was overhead by one of my minions saying he acquired his suit here! Now, speak or-"

"Yeah, a lotta people sneaking around in the night come here for their clothes, buster, and _that's_ all! I don't ask names, I don't ask why, I don't ask nothing!" Phineas fed up at this latest numbskull snarled at the startled desperado not expecting how his victim was behaving so irately instead of quivering in fear.

Rallying, the guy with the knife hissed, "You dare to mock me? Perhaps my title carved with a hundred cuts for each time upon your skin will convince you to confess!"

The dagger was then lowered to wave to-and-fro along its descending path of Phineas' torso as if wondering where to slice first. At the far left part of this gesturing, the dagger came to an abrupt halt to then sweep much easier into the opposite direction.

Watching that, Phineas frowned. He then told the guy about to break out in sadistic giggling, "Who the hell did your jacket? It's binding how you can move your arm!"

"Eh?" Mr. Metal-Head blankly replied. He glanced down at his left arm in its jacket sleeve, before coming out with an indignant, "Hold your tongue, cur, lest I remove it! The most talented tailor in Hong Kong is at my beck and call!"

"And that means what?" Phineas answered in his best acidic tone. "I bet that other clothes maker has no idea what you do in your normal life when you're not pretending to be some law-abiding citizen with a fake face! You need somebody who knows how to rig you up properly! Now, take it off, okay?"

An astonished villain next watched how the tailor walked unconcernedly away from the still-ready dagger to step behind his captor and begin tugging on the back of the jacket, muttering to himself all the while, "Yep, the seams are wrong. Just need to extend 'em a bit. Will you put that damn knife away before you stab yourself?"

Mere minutes afterwards, this confused malefactor examined himself in the shop mirror, giving a tentative swing of both arms. Not only did they now move without the slightest bit of trouble, his altered jacket fit much more comfortably while maintaining its elegant stylishness. Still, whatever fashion magic that tailor had just performed, it was beyond time to get back to their business tonight.

Drawing his dagger again from its chest sheath, the villain pointed that hand weapon at the tailor standing behind the shop counter. "No man can say the Stalker of the Darkness is ungrateful, you lower-caste laborer. For that, I shall give you a clean death once you reveal-"

"Excuse me," a polite Phineas interrupted. "Are you aware of a couple things? Like, once in a while, my customers who I don't talk about don't have the cash to pay their bill in full. So, to make up the difference, they leave behind the odd souvenir or two. Let me tell you, odd isn't really the word for some of what I've got, and I keep 'em all in the drawer here," he finished, tapping the shop counter."

"What does that have to do with me?" this suddenly-suspicious villain inquired.

"Well, you've got just a knife. Do me a favor and take a step to the right so when I shoot you with one of the spare Buck Rogers-type rayguns I've collected, all I have to do is wipe off the big scorch mark on the wall. That's what'll be left of you, understand?"

There was enough of the villain's bisected forehead for beads of sweat to abruptly appear there. He yet managed, "You're bluffing!"

"Nope. But I'd really rather not do it, if only because you still owe me for the alteration," the tailor nonchalantly responded.

A villain just stood there, thinking hard. Eventually, he said with a great deal of caution while putting away his dagger, "If I was to indeed pay for that and take my leave, would our business be concluded without further violence amongst us?"

Phineas merely looked blank. "Business? What business? You were never here. I can't talk about someone who didn't show up in the first place. Lots of people like that, you know. It's amazing how I still keep this place running that way, but I manage. About that, fork over the cash."

At that moment, the villain acted rather sheepish. "Um…I came here tonight without bringing along any of this land's money. However…" He reached up to remove a stickpin from his tuxedo shirtfront which had a small flawless white sphere at the end of the pin. "Will this pearl do?"

Phineas waved an accepting hand at the counter. "Leave it there. After I visit a jeweler's to have it appraised, I'll put the rest on your tab."

"My _tab?_ " came blurting out from an incredulous evildoer. "What makes you think I'm coming back here?!"

"You, or someone else you send here, it doesn't make any difference to me," Phineas shrugged. "I don't take sides, I don't talk about it. I'm a tailor, I just fix their clothes. Pass that on, will you?"

Once again, the villain needed some time to take that in. He eventually ventured, "So, you're…impartial? Like Switzerland?"

"That place's a lot bigger than here, but yeah, the idea's basically the same. Everybody needs pants. Everybody wants their pants to look good. I can do that, but only if I'm left alone. Is it so hard to understand?"

"No, not at all," a villain admitted with an agreeing half-grimace. He maintained this unsettling expression at the tailor while backing up towards the shop door. "Very well, you've convinced me. As long as our opponents are of the same mind, this shop-" (the tailor began to open his mouth) "-or wherever you work shall be declared neutral ground. It'd still be wise for you to properly schedule your appointments so as not to cause any potential conflicts."

Phineas snorted. "Like half of them - any of you - even bother with that! Most just show up at all hours of the night and expect me to be ready right away without a single cup of coffee!"

He glanced over at the shop's front door which was now closed with no trace whatsoever of his recent visitor. Rolling his eyes, Phineas muttered, "Are all those nuts having some kind of vanishing competition? At least this time he didn't leave behind a big smoke cloud making me cough my lungs out!"

* * *

About sixty years later, Phineas McCormack grinned to himself. He'd never thought after so long his tailoring business would still be operating nicely, but that was exactly what'd happened in spite of all the changes during this time.

There'd been the gradual fading away of all those mystery men and their unscrupulous adversaries starting around World War II, but that was soon made up by the appearance of the newest costumed superheroes. Even more of them than their equally heroic predecessors as a matter of fact, which only made more moolah for Phineas when those colorful-clad champions also found out there was a place where their ruined uniforms could be fixed without any questions as long as they followed the laid-down rules of absolute neutrality.

These rules were in turn reluctantly obeyed by the super-villains. Boy, did they complain about it, right at Phineas when he was mending the consequences of their latest defeat. Those complaints quickly went away when the itemized bill was presented and the amount of "having to listen to a bunch of whiners" was often much larger than everything else.

Still, Phineas continued to do his work quite well into the late 'fifties. So well, in fact, that it came as a total shock to all those in leather and Spandex when Phineas announced his retirement. Why not? He'd been doing it for nearly thirty years for plenty of money, his body wasn't getting any younger, and Florida sounded even better lately whenever winter came around to freeze solid the Big Apple.

Except, for one shining moment, there was a titanic team-up by two guys who typically tried to punch each other's heads off every time they met in battle. On this occasion, however, they had a civilized discussion over how many occasions when their outfits were restored to perfection so they could clash with utter flair before the television cameras. And now, the guy who did their pants was leaving for Miami?

Hell, _no._

One morning while collecting the paper, Phineas had showing up on his Bronx threshold a pair of guys with their underwear over their pants. (Look, what the customer wanted, the customer got.) Next came several presents for Phineas. These included a pitcher of ice water from the Fountain of Youth, assorted alien technology like teleporters and fabric synthesizers, and a notice of auction for a sprawling Rocky Mountain underground bunker with environmental control where Phineas could walk around in his shirtsleeves whatever the weather was several hundred feet above.

The real killer was two sets of superbly pitiful puppy-eyes begging Phineas to stay as their personal tailor.

 _Damn_ those puppy-eyes.

Surveying his kingdom, Phineas nodded in satisfaction. Everything looked good today. Down in the workplace, hundreds of men and women fully trained to Phineas' standards worked busily at their assigned tasks of repairing various costumes from all over the world. Whether worn by those of good or evil, it didn't matter. Only the job counted, and you did it with all the expertise you had.

A lot of these workers were disabled in one way or the other. Phineas didn't care. All those employed below had full benefits, medical, dental, great vacation plans, and when they retired an actual pension which was guaranteed to never get hijacked by some greedy banker or politician.

In turn, none of the workers particularly cared about the fact that about 80% of them were former underlings of some Evil Overlord with the rest various sidekicks and associates of heroes, most of them discarded when they became injured in the line of duty. Phineas merely saw it as the chance of getting people who were capable of following extremely stupid orders without a second thought. Considering what some of those costumes looked like, you needed tailors who could basically turn their brains off or not fall over laughing at what they'd been told to patch up without making any kind of improvements. Or just lighting it on fire and toasting marshmallows over the flames.

Looking ahead at the far end of the bunker, Phineas watched how numerous couriers carrying finished costumes stepped onto the transporter pads and shimmered out of sight, on their way to delivering these burdens even during the middle of pitched superhero warfare.

It was all part of the Tailor's Neutrality. _His_ minions could walk right in between the worse four-color smackdown conceivable, and the participants would instantly hold their fire. It all came down to the fact that everyone wanted to look their best nowadays what with the paparazzi, television/cable networks, and camera-toting public ready for the six-figure shot of some hero(ine) or villain(ess) baring all to the world. Rather than having that happen, a quick pause of the action would occur for everybody to change costumes, and then they'd get back to the fisticuffs and pretentious dialogue with multiple exclamation points.

It was totally insane, and it was making Phineas McCormack an _exceedingly_ obscene amount of money every year.

That aside, Phineas occasionally took the opportunity to push his neutrality as far as it'd go. He liked just fine the world the way it was, and there were plenty of powerful idiots more than capable of massacring everyone in sight or blowing up everything.

If it felt necessary to his minions, the adjustment of new costumes for some villain's prisoners would come with the tied ropes or clamped shackles getting subtly loosened. Not all that much, just enough to assist them in breaking free at the proper time. Or, when leaving the jail cell, a casual brush against the bunch of keys to the cellblock would shift it dangling from a wall hook into the correct position for a straining prisoner to hook onto with a long wire broken off their cell bunk.

It happened the other way, too. A minion straightening out the cape of one of the more sensible Evil Overlords would seize the chance to whisper into their ear that the heroes had found the primary secret tunnel and should it ever be necessary, the secondary escape route would be much better.

Confident everything was going as usual down there on the workfloor, Phineas went back to his office desk. Sitting there, he began skimming through today's paperwork. Soon enough, he came to a certain name which had been popping up for the last couple of months.

Staring in awe at the sizable figures presented there from the Watcher's Council, Phineas said out loud, "Buffy Summers, _again!?_ It was bad enough she's gone through a whole new designer outfit every night since she moved to Sunnydale, but now that Slayer's demanding replacement shoes from the same upmarket creator! Nobody owns that much expensive footwear, not even Imelda Marcos!"


End file.
